Photo Story: Bottling

By Melissa Jacob
I didn’t know her when she whispered in my ear, all persuasion and mesmeric. Dive into the bottle and win baby, win. In a few short hours we’ll be dancing through traffic.

Photo Story: The Great Candled Ball

By Marshall Singleton
The world turns and the effigies we build to venerate ourselves rot to the ground, and we breathe a small entropic sigh, and we wring our filthy little mitts and say ...

Photo Story: The Postcard

By Arleane Ralph
Contractors discovered the postcard upon pulling out the kitchen cabinetry. It sat for days on a switch box until the drywallers came.

Photo Story: I am …

I am the cold shiver in the warm bath, the sour bite of the cherry, the wedge of food in your windpipe. I am half past home time for the kids you trusted to the swing park. I am the rise in your stomach as you take the blind bend on the brink of too late. I am the late night call that...

Photo Story: The Meteorologists

Laying on the hood of her old Volvo, we scanned the sky, looking for the meteor shower the weatherman had promised—“he must know, he’s a meteorologist”—our conversation continually broken by exclamations of “there’s one."

Photo Story: Defector

By Clara Ray Rusinek Klein
The postcards came creased, tobacco-stained, stamped Minsk, Irkutsk, and Krasnoyarsk. Ink bloomed in clouding steam as I stirred bubbling beets, hand on my belly, squinting at Yuri’s scrawl.

Photo Story: Visitation

By Audra Kerr Brown
I recognize her stern chin in flakes of peeling paint, her priggish nose upon water-stained ceilings. And now her profile, a cameo brooch pinned against fractured pavement.

Photo Story: Listen

By Jenn O'Connor
He learned to sign so that he could communicate with her, so that they could share speech without speaking.

Photo Story: Comrades

By Tom Conlon
Aunt Enid did not look like the rest of us, although she bore the slightest resemblance to Aunt Grace. Inevitable, I suspected, for two women who lived together their entire lives...

Photo Story: A Bolder Life

By John Evans
This is how I remember it, what I saw from my window my first night as an orphan. Two trees, backlit by a low-slung moon, took turnabout gesturing at one another.

Photo Story: Bruised

By Elaine McKay
Her peaches and bruised complexion haunt the flat. Bandaged in oversized sweaters, she’s shrinking.
 He spills over the couch, thick skinned, swelling as he chews upon her nerve.

Photo Story: Throwing Stones

By Connor Walsh
The dark flees from the beams of light like a thousand timid spiders to the surviving shadows. Cursing and wielding a fifth of his sense, Benjamin stumbles out of his father’s running station wagon and kisses the crumbling courtyard, bloodying his lip.

Photo Story: Flames

By Connor Walsh
The flame framed Henry's adolescent features against an impending darkness. A fiery period endured there, ending a childhood.

Photo Prompt: Door No. 1, Door No. 2

By Eric Skinner
When He asks, Elizabeth chooses Room #2. There, she rides the bicycle hell-fire down steep hills, her red hair the color of mercurochrome covering wounds.

Photo Prompt: Person in a Box

“Mwahaha, I’m a robot!” I yelled, voice muffled through the cardboard.
“Robots don’t say ‘mwahaha,'” he whispered next to me. “They say 'beep-boop.’”

Photo Prompt: The Woman in Waiting

She waits alone, as she had waited every weekday morning for that familiar sound.

Photo Prompt: An Inherited Condition

By Eric Skinner
Hana shouts in her native Korean, “Foul Pig is waddling in for her manicure.” Venetian Spa on Broadway, far Off Broadway in Ocala, is operated by Hana and three sisters.

Photo Prompt: The Chair

Here's what we discovered with our last photo prompt: an empty, abandoned chair can hold more compelling stories than we ever imagined. We couldn't decide on just one to feature. You'll see why.

Photo Story: The Woman in Silhouette

The night scenes had been going on forever, it seemed like. Erik couldn’t get the headlight shot blocked correctly and Lorraine was getting pissed. She was tired of this role.

Photo Story: The Gurney

By Jeff Switt
November spreads its grayness across sticky sidewalks as acrid smoke from burn barrels warms frigid hands and stings sleep-weary eyes.